Pockets
by wheresthecheckpoint
Summary: Because Clark Kent needs pockets.


My last story was a bit sad so I decided to mood balance with a lighter one. Thank you for reading.

1/27: Repost with minor edits. Thanks Meg for the karate chops.

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Despite knowing he had nothing to fear from doctors, Clark hated hospitals. More than hospitals, he hated doctor's offices. They were so much more intimate. The tiny rooms created close quarters he didn't particularly care for, especially when he was standing in the middle of one as Clark Kent, not Superman. Close quarters meant he was more susceptible to scrutiny, more likely to fall victim to a perceptive mind. Clark examined every square inch of the tiny room, counted the tiles on the floor, counted the even smaller tiles composing the larger tiles. That did nothing to quell his anxiety.

Reclining on the examination table, Lois stared at the ceiling. The doctor was weighing heavily on her patience. They'd already waited for twenty minutes. Next to her Clark, sighed for what felt like the millionth time, and the small plastic chair he was sitting in groaned mercilessly when he stood yet again. Crackling beneath her, the sterile white paper covering the table spoke her every move as she shifted up to her elbows. Lois watched Clark walk to the solid wood door, and go still with a concentrated stare. After a few seconds, he walked to the opposite wall repeating the process.

Anxiously, Clark's hands smoothed down the sides of his pants before he decided against placing them there, and opted to fold his arms over his chest instead. Thinking better of it, he interlaced his fingers resting them against his stomach. Changing his mind once more, Clark dropped his arms to his sides.

"Would you calm down? You're making me nervous," she grumbled, "What's wrong with you anyway."

"These pants don't have any pockets," he spoke softly in response.

Lois rolled her eyes "What does it matter if they have pockets or not?"

He pressed his lips together tightly, furrowing his brow. "Clark Kent needs pockets."

A small smile pulled at one side of her mouth. It was always funny when he talked about himself in third person. He probably didn't even realize when he slipped into that mode.

The urgent text she had received mid-morning read simply, "I NEED PANTS!"

Heading back to their midtown apartment at that time of day was murder, and she was in no mood. Instead, she had decided to slip into one of the niche shops on the first floor of the building that housed the Daily Planet. Finding only one pair in Clark's size–thankfully in black–she hadn't asked questions; merely shoved her credit card into the merchant's hand with a less than delighted look.

Normally, Clark was much more careful with his clothes. Today, he'd become tangled mid redress, and ripped his pants nearly in half. She had found him on the roof of the building, crouched behind a ventilation unit, in nothing but a dress shirt, half undone tie, and boxers. Minutes later, he was standing next to her desk with a frown on his face.

"Why don't these pants have pockets?"

"I don't know Kent. I'm not an expert in men's clothes. You said you needed pants I bought you pants," she'd hissed in his general direction. Thoroughly scolded, he had retreated to his desk.

That had been several hours ago, however. She thought for sure he'd be over the pocket-less situation by now.

"Your uniform doesn't have pockets."

Clark peered through the wall just to make sure no one was about to intrude on their delicate conversation. "Superman doesn't need pockets. Clark Kent needs pockets."

"Give me a break, Kent. Just do what you would do if you were in uniform."

"I'd cross my arms over my chest," he frowned at the proposition, "but when I do that I automatically fall into–"

"Superman pose?" she whispered with a wicked grin.

"Yes," he replied, less than amused. He'd spent too much time separating Clark and Superman to destroy all of his hard work with uncontrollable quirk.

Lois crossed her arms over her chest mockingly. "Not funny Lois."

"What are you so nervous about? You already know he's fine." Automatically his eyes followed where she placed a hand over her belly. "You can see that, and Jor-El confirmed that everything is good."

"Pockets are," he shrugged, "sort of my thing."

Lois sighed, shaking her head. Pockets were sort of Clark's thing. She couldn't recall one work related interaction he'd ever had without stuffing one or both of his hands in his pockets. That, plus a gentle rock on his heels, and an adjustment of the glasses with a finger, turned Clark Kent into the most unassuming man in the bullpen. Complete opposite of his primary colored pal.

"Give me your hand," she requested reaching out for him.

Clark hesitated for a moment, thinking she planned to force him into settling by holding his hand like a small child. Giving it a second thought, he moved to accept the touch.

"Other hand," she whispered pulling away before his right hand could make contact.

Tentatively, he gave her his left.

Not wanting ultrasound gel all over her work shirt, Lois had changed before the appointment into jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. A two-pocket hooded sweatshirt.

"Any pocket in a storm, huh, Kent?" She asked with a grin, pulling his hand into the pocket with her own.

Clark chuckled softly, with a wag of his head.

"Yeah, Lois... any pocket."


End file.
